Monday, 6 February 2017

Blog Tour ~ Before You Go by Clare Swatman

Jaffareadstoo is delighted to be hosting today's top on the

Before You Go Blog Tour

...I'm really excited to be able to share an excerpt of Before You Go ...

Pan Macmillan
9 February 2017

When I open them again it takes a
moment to work out where I am. I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but I’m
surprised to find I’m still in Ed’s bed, where we ended up last night. I’m
still nestled in the crook of his arm, and his other arm is slung across the
bed, opening his chest up to the room. Gingerly I pull myself into a sitting
position and look around. It’s dim, the sun seeping gently round the edges of
the blinds, but there’s enough light to see and I can tell instantly it’s not
only the room we were in last night, but it’s the next morning, not weeks or
months later: there are my clothes in a pile on the floor, Ed’s next to them;
across the room I can see our wine glasses in the brighter light by the window,
half drunk, smudged and abandoned in the heat of the moment. My face flames at
the memory and I smile.

I need a drink so I pull Ed’s
shirt on and wrap it round me and pad along to the kitchen to pour myself a
glass of water. As the cold liquid hits the back of my throat I try to work out
what’s going on here. It’s different from normal – or whatever has become
normal – and I’m not sure what to make of it. Why have I woken up the next day
rather than days or months later?

Who knows? But it means another
day with Ed, so I can’t complain. I walk back into the bedroom and climb into
bed. As I do, Ed stirs and opens his eyes, squinting at me in the
semi-darkness.

‘Morning, you.’ His breath is
stale but I kiss him anyway and he responds hungrily. When he pulls away he’s
fully awake and he smiles at me.

‘So, last night was fun.’

I rest my chin on my hand and
look down at him.

‘It was.’

He sits up and adjusts his
pillows so he’s facing me. ‘So what do you want to do today?’

I meet his gaze. ‘How do you know
I’m not busy?’

He shrugs, a smirk playing on his
lips. ‘I don’t.’

I elbow him in the side and he
falls backwards onto the bed.

‘Oi!’ he wails. I ignore him.

‘As it happens I am free and it
would be nice to do something, yes.’

He grins again and glances at the
clock. It’s 9.30. ‘How about a picnic?’

‘Ooh, yes.’ I clap my hands
together. ‘I love a picnic.’

‘Great. Shall we go to Clapham
Common?’

I frown. ‘I can’t go out like
this. Do you mind if I go home and change first? Then maybe we could go to Ally
Pally?’

‘Yeah, course.’ His eyes roam up
and down my body and I feel myself blushing. ‘Anyway, I don’t know why you need
to change, I think you look pretty hot in just my shirt.’

‘Why, thank you young man.’ I
flutter my eyelashes ridicu­lously and Ed throws his arms around me and pulls
me tightly to him until I can hardly breathe.

‘But you’re not going anywhere
yet. We’ve got loads of time for this first.’ And then his lips move down my
neck and across my nipples and I gasp, lost in the moment all over again.

It’s gone midday by the time I
let myself back into my flat, Ed in tow. We’re holding hands, giggling like
teenagers, and I’m relieved to find Jane out. He waits in the living room while
I jump in the shower and get dressed and I hope for his sake Jane doesn’t come
home and find him there all alone, prime for interrogation.

Half an hour later we’re ready to
go. I’ve shoved bread, cheese, crisps and wine into a bag and Ed hoicks it onto
his back, then we set off through the sun-baked streets which wind up towards
Alexandra Park. We hold hands all the way and his touch feels as though it’s
burning my skin, but I won’t let go. I can’t let go.

The park is busy on this hot,
bright Sunday lunchtime. The sky is a hazy blue, the heat making everyone feel
lazy. Roasting bodies glisten in the rare summer sun, hungrily soaking up the
rays, while the odd person half-heartedly throws a frisbee or a ball through
the thick, sticky air. From a couple of hundred metres away comes the sound of
laughter and screams as a group of friends squirt each other with water
pistols. We stop and spread out our towels on the grass in one of the few free
areas of shade we can find, and Ed unpacks the food as I take in the familiar
view. The rows of Crouch End houses in the foreground, reaching out to central
London, dotted with spots of green parkland and trees, all the way to the
soaring skyscrapers of Canary Wharf and, on a day like today, a hazy,
shimmering south London. It’s so stunning it takes my breath away.

‘God, I’m starving,’ Ed says,
grabbing a piece of bread and shoving it into his mouth. Crumbs spray all over
the towel as he struggles to chew the enormous mouthful.

‘Oh, that’s a lovely way to
impress a girl.’ I roll my eyes and attempt to flick crumbs from the towel
where they’ve sprayed like bullets.

‘Sorry,’ he grins mischievously,
his cheeks puffed out like a hamster.

I grab some bread and cheese too
and start making myself a sandwich, the heat making every movement feel like an
effort. The air is full of a soft buzzing sound, a mix of distant lawnmowers,
chatter and the odd wasp flying lazily past. I peer through the darkness of my
sunglasses and take the opportunity to have a proper look at Ed while he can’t
see my eyes. He’s still chewing furiously, the muscles of his jaw working hard
to get through another huge chunk of bread. His hair, slightly sweaty, is stuck
to his forehead, three dark strands trailing in his eyes so he has to keep
pushing them away. His skin is lightly tanned, a mixture of sun cream and sweat
making it glisten in the sunlight. He turns his head away to watch some kids
playing a game of frisbee nearby and I allow my gaze to move downwards, taking
in his strong, lean arms beneath the short sleeves of his T-shirt, the soft
hairs lightened from hours in the sun. I blush as my eyes travel down further,
trying not to think about what’s under those clothes, instead checking out his
legs peeking from the bottom of his shorts, the muscles taut. His head whips
round and I tear my eyes away, hoping he’ll mistake the redness flooding my
face for overheating rather than embarrassment at being caught ogling him.

Ed leans back on his elbows and
watches me.

‘What?’ I feel awkward under his
gaze, scared he’ll see right through me and know everything that’s going on in
my head.

‘Nothing. Just enjoying the
view.’ He grins, then lies flat on his back, his hands behind his head. I
follow suit, watching the leaves above my head rustle gently in the almost non-
existent breeze, my mind full of questions – questions I don’t think I’ll ever
be able to answer. Ed’s body is so close to mine and I long to reach out and
touch him. I shuffle round so my head is leaning gently on his thigh, and his
hand reaches down to play with my hair. A shiver runs through me and I know,
before it even happens, that sleep is going to take me away, leave me stranded
in this moment. But I don’t even mind because I’m so happy that even if this is
my last moment with Ed, then it’s OK. And then tiredness overtakes me, my
eyelids droop and I’m powerless to stop them . . .

About the author

Clare Swatman is a journalist for
a number of weekly women's magazines. Before You Go is her first novel. Clare
was Features Editor for Bella and has written for Best, Woman's Own and Real
People. She writes for her local magazine as well as the travel pages for Take
a Break. Clare lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and two boys.

Photo credit: Leanne Dixon

My thanks to the author for sharing this excerpt and also to Jess at Pan Macmillan for the invitation to be part of this blog tour

Blog Tour runs 25th January - 8th February, do take a look at the other blog stops. Follow on Twitter #beforeyougo@clareswatman@panmacmillan